Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Not One Thing Left to Do

Have you ever had an elder relative who delighted in the
number of cards received for a special occasion?

When I was a child, I remember
my family traveling to visit an aunt, just a few days after her birthday. While
she, by that time, was well into her sixties, she had not lost that magical,
child-like delight over the occasion of yet another birthday. With our family
encircling her in her living room, she was nearly breathless as she announced
the exact count of how many birthday cards she had received—so far.

Perhaps that was a generational thing. I hardly remember any
of those I know now—whose ages hover from just above mine to nearly equal my mother’s
generation—taking such delight in counting their cards. From that generation, you are more likely to
hear elicited a groan over the approach of yet another birthday.

Birthdays weren’t the only event which garnered such
card-counting delight in that previous generation. I remember others reveling
in the number of cards received for anniversary celebrations, too.

So it may not come as so great a surprise to read that
Lummie Davis Moore knew the exact count of the cumulative get well wishes the Ladies’
Auxiliary had delivered to her hospital room in Phoenix, Arizona. And, reciprocally, it was
probably de rigueur that each of
those thoughtful socialite matrons and bridge luncheon companions insured that
they got their card in the mail within the proper time frame. After all,
someday they, too, would want to boast about their hundred-and-four cards.

Not to be too condescending of poor Lummie—after all, what
did one do for days on end in an early 1960s hospital room thousands of miles
removed from any relatives? If, from her letter, we can extrapolate any
estimate of how long she had already been confined, both at the acute care
hospital and at the rehabilitation facility, it was likely approaching three weeks
already. In addition to that long span of time, we can tell from the continuation of Lummie’s letter below that she had been
advised that she had months of difficult recuperation ahead of her, too.

Yet, if Lummie had nothing else, you may amply credit her
for her spunk. She was determined to keep active and stay as independent as
possible—with the possible caveat of gratitude that her husband, Wallace Moore,
had, at his passing ten years prior, left her in such a position as to be able to maintain that level of
independence.

Friends bring me
everything. 104 get well cards so far—flowers perfume powder all sorts of
things—Bless your heart for offering to come, but there is not one thing left
to do—I will have to cancel my trip East for this year. Dr. says it will be Oct
before I am walking with either crutches or a walker. The nurses take me all
over the grounds in a wheel chair and roll me out in the sun—Lawyer Divelbess
says those big places carry insurance to cover such as this, but if they
don’t—thank God and Wallace Moore I can take care of it myself—I have taken
myself to dining room a couple of times I am so anxious to learn to operate
chair—it is going to be some time before I am back home, but friends +
neighbors are taking care of everything there—So don’t worry.

10 comments:

Lummie sounds like a cheerful and optimistic person, especially considering the circumstances that might have caused a lesser person to indulge in some woe-is-me time. I'm glad she received 104 cards -- she was worthy.

I know what you mean about that generation taking pride in the number of cards. Whenever we visit relatives in the Shenandoah Valley, I enjoy reading the local paper to see all the ads for card parties. Not Bridge or Canasta. No -- cards! For so-in-so's birthday or anniversary or illness. I wonder if strangers send cards.

I was quite amazed too, Jana. Makes me want to know a bit more about what life was like for Lummie in those later years in Phoenix. Actually, I wouldn't mind knowing some more about all the rest of her life, too. She must have been quite fascinating to talk to.

She did seem to take it all in stride, didn't she? I know I certainly would need that kind of reminder if I had to go through all that ordeal. Of course, who knows what kind of life experiences went into shaping that ability.

About Me

It is my contention that, after a lifetime, one of the greatest needs people have is to be remembered. They want to know: have I made a difference?
I write because I can't keep for myself the gifts others have entrusted to me. Through what I've already been given--though not forgetting those to whom I must pass this along--from family I receive my heritage; through family I leave a legacy. With family I weave a tapestry. These are my strands.